Ten minutes later, as he worked his way with diminishing enthusiasm through an over-generous plateful of smoked-salmon sandwiches, Morse saw Sergeant Lewis appear in the doorway — a Lewis looking almost as self-satisfied as the oily Lord Ellmore himself — and raise his right thumb, before being introduced to Sara Hickman.
“Something to drink, Sergeant?”
“Thank you. Orange juice, please.”
“Something to eat?”
“What have you got?”
She smiled happily. “Anything. Anything you like. Our Head Chef is at your command.”
“Can he rustle up some eggs and chips?”
She said she was sure — well, almost sure — that he could, and departed to investigate.
“Lew-is! This is a cordon bleu establishment.”
“Should taste good then, sir.”
The buoyant Lewis passed a note to Morse, simultaneously (and much to Morse’s relief) helping himself to a couple of sandwiches.
“You don’t mind, sir? I’m half starving.”
At 2:30 P.M. Marilyn Hudson, a small, fair-complexioned young woman, was called into Sara’s office. Marilyn had been a chamber-cum-kitchenmaid at the hotel for almost three years; and it was soon clear that she knew as much as anyone was likely to know about the day-to-day — and night-by-night — activities there.
Morse now questioned her closely about the morning of the previous Sunday, March 3.
“You took them breakfast?”
“Yes, sir. About quarter to eight.”
“You knocked on the door?”
“Like I always do, yes. I heard somebody say ‘Come in’ so I—”
“You had a key?”
“I’ve got a master key. So I took the tray in and put it on the dressing table.”
“Were they in bed together?”
“No. Twin beds it is there. She was on the far side. Difficult to miss her, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, it was her pajamas — yellow an’ black an’ green stripes — up an’ down.”
“Vertical stripes, you mean?”
“I’m not sure about that, sir. Just up an’ down, like I said. An’ she’s got the same pair now. I took their breakfast again this morning. Same room — thirty-six.” Marilyn gave a nervous little giggle. “Perhaps it’s time she changed them.”
“She may have got two pairs,” interposed Lewis — not particularly helpfully, judging from the scowl on Morse’s face.
“Do you think it could have been anybody else — except Mrs. Storrs?”
“No, sir. Like I say, she was there in the bed. But...”
“But what?”
“Well, I saw her all right. But I didn’t really see him. He was in the bathroom having a shave — electric razor it was — and the door was open a bit and I saw he was still in his pajamas and he said thank you but...”
“Would you have recognized him if he’d turned his head?”
For the first time Marilyn Hudson seemed unsure of herself.
“Well, I’d seen them earlier in the hotel, but I didn’t notice him as much as her really. She was, you know, ever so dressy and smart — dark glasses she wore — and a white trouser-suit. Same thing as she’s got on today.”
Morse turned to Lewis. “Do you think she’s got two white trouser-suits, Sergeant?”
“Always a possibility, sir.”
“So,” if Morse was experiencing some disappointment, he gave no indication of it, “what you’re telling us is that you’re pretty sure it was her, but not quite so sure it was him?”
Marilyn considered the question a while before replying:
“No. I’m pretty sure it was both of them, sir.”
“Good girl, our Marilyn,” confided Sara, “even if her vocabulary’s a bit limited.”
Morse looked across at her quizzically:
“Vertical and horizontal, you mean? I shouldn’t worry about that. I’ve always had trouble with east and west myself.”
“Lots of people have trouble with right and left,” began Lewis — but Morse was already making a further request:
“You’ve still got the details of who was staying here last Saturday?”
“Of course. Just a minute.”
She returned shortly with a sheaf of registration cards; and Morse was looking through, flicking them over one at a time — when suddenly he stopped, the familiar tingling of excitement across his shoulders.
He handed the card to Lewis.
And Lewis whistled softly, incredulously, as he read the name.
Morse turned again to Sara. “Can you let us have a copy of the bill — account, whatever you call it — for Room fifteen?”
“You were right then, sir!” whispered Lewis excitedly. “You always said it was ‘D.C.’!”
Sarah came back and laid the account in front of Morse.
“Single room — number fifteen. Just the one night. Paid by credit card.”
Morse looked through the items.
“No evening meal?”
“No.”
“No breakfast either?”
“No.”
“Look! Can we use your phone from here?”
“Of course you can. Shall I leave you?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Morse, “if you don’t mind.”
Morse and Lewis emerged from the office some twenty minutes later; and were walking behind reception when one of the guests came through from the entrance hall and asked for the key to Room 36.
Then he saw Morse.
“Good God! What are you doing here?” asked Julian Storrs.
“I was just going to ask you exactly the same question,” replied Morse, with a curiously confident smile.
Chapter sixty-three
“Why did you murder those workmen in 1893?”
“It wasn’t in 1893. It was in ’92.”
“Do you want my wife to be here as well? I dropped her in the city center to do a bit of shopping. But she shouldn’t be long — if that’s what you want?”
“We’d rather talk to you alone, sir.”
“What’s this bloody ‘sir’ got to do with things?”
The three of them — Storrs, Morse, Lewis — were seated in Room 36, a pleasingly spacious room, whose windows over-looked the hotel’s pool and the sodden-looking croquet green.
“What’s all this about anyway?” Storrs’ voice was already sounding a little weary, increasingly tetchy. “Can we get on with it?”
So Morse got on with it, quickly sketching in the background to the two murders under investigation:
Storrs had been having an affair with Rachel James — and Rachel James had been murdered.
Storrs had been blackmailed by Owens — and Owens had been murdered.
The grounds for this blackmail were threefold: his extramarital relationship with Ms. James; his dishonest concealment of his medical prognosis; and his wife’s earlier career as striptease dancer and Soho call girl. For these reasons, it would surely have been very strange had Storrs not figured somewhere near the top of the suspect list.
As far as the first murder was concerned, Storrs — both the Storrs — had an alibi: they had been in bed with each other. How did one break that sort of alibi?
As far as the second murder was concerned, Storrs — again both Storrs — had their alibis: but this time not only were they in the same bedroom together, but also eighty-odd miles away from the scene of the crime. In fact, in the very room where they were now. But alibis could be fabricated; and if so, they could be broken. Sometimes they were broken.